


The Adventure of a Haunting Past

by Naicele



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Drinking, Idiots in Love, M/M, Murder Mystery, Pining, Secret Societies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: There is a serial killer loose and this time things seem to be personal. At the same time things get increasingly complicated between the two friends. Recepie includes a spot of violence and a pinch of love.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	1. Prologue: First thing first

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite a few years ago, it was originally posted on another fanfiction site. I been wanting to come back to it and update it and post it here for safekeeping, so this is a rewritten version. I will post chapters as soon as I can manage to rewrite and edit them.

03.00 A.M.

This was ridiculous. John felt ridiculous.

What he should have said was, “No Sherlock that's a terrible idea. Let’s just stay home and watch _QI_ on the telly with a nice cup of tea. A nice relaxing, safe night in and if you get bored we can juggle some explosives.”

But he hadn’t. As always Sherlock’s calm reasoning had won him over and now here he was; feeling like a fish on dry land.

John took a sip on his drink, it was neon green. Why would anyone want to drink something that was green? Such a vile colour. Not even green tea, which he had dabbled in when times had been worse and he had been desperate for anything to make life better, is really green, he though. More of a natural brown-green. He had tried to order a pint of bitter but the young bartender hadn’t been able to hear him over the insane noise of the night club and in the end had just given him this green sludge. It had a horrible, sickly sweet taste that coated his tongue and the roof of his mouth. But Sherlock had said to blend in, so drink it he did.

He was starting to feel a bit tipsy, this was their fourth club for the evening and he hadn’t had time to eat anything before Sherlock dragged him out on their resent quest. He was bored and out of his element and to top it off, John couldn't even see Sherlock anymore. He scanned the crowd trying to spot his detective, or failing that the man they were trying to locate.

Their target for the evening was, according to Detective Inspector Lestrade, working London’s night life selling some drug that looked like cocaine but put the user in a coma. After which he, as Donovan had expressed it, sliced and diced until there wasn’t much left. The police had been tearing their hair out over the case and they had, after the second victim, asked for help for Sherlock’s help. And since where Sherlock went, John followed, here he was. Trying to find one nasty serial killing drug seller in the vast and trawling London night life; he felt like he was looking for a needle in a stack of needles.

They had been on the case for the last couple of days already, being led in circles, John had gotten too little sleep and Sherlock had been his best hyper active self, eyes gleaming and hands drawing huge circles in the air. Tonight he had assured John, the net was closing in and they were on the man’s trail. John hoped deeply this would be over soon, the murderer captured and locked away.

John forgot himself and took another sip of his drink, almost chocked and went back to what was his job this evening; keeping a lookout for anything suspicious.

He let his gaze drift over the crowd milling about. The place was huge; six dance floors the girl in the wardrobe with spiky blue hair had told them. That was apparently very impressive as far as these things went. None of the other places they had visited that night was even close to this size; this place felt like a world in itself. In this dark place other laws rules and in the safety of the crowd people threw away their inhibitions and lost themselves to the night.

There was a steady bas beat thumping, the kind you could feel in your entire body luring you away to faraway places. On the dance floor in front of him the young and hip that only came out at night were moving to the music, their bodies sleek from sweat and taking on strange shapes as the different coloured lights swept over their heads. The place smelled of pheromones, alcohol, and sweat; like a piece of metal wrapped in silk.

“What is that vile thing in your hand?” John jumped as Sherlock suddenly stood beside him, one slim elbow resting on the bar and restless eyes scanning the crowd.

“I didn’t catch its name but the bartender assured me this is what’s in the vogue at the moment. It tastes a bit like apples.”

Sherlock just gave him one of those wry looks he had mastered to perfection and John wondered how he could be wearing a suit in a place like this and yet not look out of place. John himself had rarely felt as ill-fitting as he did here; thankfully the drinks had taken away the worst edge on the uncomfortable feeling.

“He is here.”

“Who? The killer?” John realised Sherlock didn’t mean right beside them but he couldn’t help looking around him, this was one nasty chap they were after.

“Yes off course, that is why we are here after all.” Sherlock had to lean down to scream in John’ ear to be heard over the pounding music.

“And here I was thinking we were out dancing,” John said and took the opportunity to rid himself of the horrible beverage. When he turned back Sherlock was looking at him quizzically.

“I didn’t take you as the dancing type?”

“A joke Sherlock, it was a joke.” Sherlock just did that tiny shake with his head, flinging the dark curls back.

“If you are done joking can we get back to the case...,” He didn’t wait for an answer or finish the sentence but suddenly fixed his gaze on something and taking a steady grip on John’s upper arm pulled him along straight into the dancing crowd.

“There, the man with the dark polo shirt, do you see him?” Sherlock hissed in his ear.

John tried to see where Sherlock was pointing at the same time as he attempted to make apologetic gestures to the people they pushed out of their way as Sherlock forced a path through the horde of revellers. He finally turned around as he managed to free himself from Sherlock and careful not slip on the wet floor looked where Sherlock pointed.

“He is going up the stairs now.” And John saw him, a nasty looking fellow, closed cropped hair, crooked lips and ears that made him look like a pugilist who had taken one beating too many. Moreover, he was wearing too much compared to the average club goer.

“I see him.”

“Good, you follow behind him and I will move around and cut him off from the other side. Do not let him notice you. We need to catch him with the substance on him; otherwise Lestrade won’t be able to make an arrest. And don’t engage him, he is dangerous.” Before John had time to argue Sherlock was lost in the crowd, his slim figure hidden by a moving wall of flesh.

“Don’t let the crazy psycho killer spot you, easy for you to say,” John muttered to himself as he started towards the stair but it got drowned out in an ear deafening roar as hundreds of people shouted in approval to something the DJ had said over the speakers. The frenzy reached new heights as people threw their arms up in the air and the beat started up even more intense than before. He managed to escape the dance floor just in time; one more second and he might have been lost in the delirium of the crowd forever.

John reached the stairs and dragging a hand along the painted concrete wall he started up after their goal. He shook his head trying to clear it, he wished he hadn’t had those drinks, but it had been the only way to stay awake. The wall was cool against his hand and wet from condensation. He ran the last steps not wanting to lose his target from sight.

Once up he found himself on another of the six dance floors, this one with a darker clad audience, he could still feel the music in his body from the big dance floor downstairs but now it was fighting for his attention with something industrial and electronic.

He spun around, where had the man gone? He searched the crowd and a sudden odd movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. There, a dark figure was leaving the room on the other side, how had he got there so quickly? John raced around the edge of the dance floor not wanting to go in the middle of what seemed like more or less friendly fighting going on; people throwing themselves at each other laughing and then doing it all over again. In the flickering lights from the strobes he almost missed the exit and had to stop himself short, just avoiding tripping over a youngster with a red Mohawk.

After a small, black painted hallway he entered a more dimly lit and quieter part. Music still streamed out of hidden speakers but it was slower, less aggressive and the bar less occupied. The ceiling was low giving a small and cramped feeling and no one was dancing. Instead people stood in small clusters talking or lounging on big sofas. He slowed down; eyes trying to see in every direction at once, but the place looked like a maze; pillars and walls making it impossible to get an overview. He started off in a random direction, swearing to himself, how was he supposed to find the man in this?

He rounded the bar and almost tripped over a couple in deep embrace leaning back against the wall. He made a hushed apology that they utterly ignored. He supposed he should text Sherlock but the odds that he would notice in this place were next to zero and he didn’t want the man to get away. Who knew, maybe this was the place he had planned to take his next victim. John was high on adrenalin and the excitement that he preferred to pretend he did not need was pumping through him.

He continued, trying his best not to stare at the people in various states of undress standing about. On one occasion he was sure he spotted the man ahead of him, dark polo shirt just disappearing behind a corner but when he ran up, he couldn’t see anyone. It was starting to freak him out and suddenly it struck him that perhaps he was being toyed with. Was the murderer leading him on in this dark maze, did he know he was being followed? In this place no one would hear him scream.

He was sweating cold now but he refused to give up. He should phone Sherlock though he realised, he could use the help and he wasn’t stupid after all. He pulled out his phone.

It had 15 missed calls and two texts, all from Sherlock –Shit- was the only word John could think. He opened the first text.

_Get out now! He knows we are after him._

And the second

_John answer your phone!! Killer knows we are here, get out_

John carefully put the phone back in his pocket, his hands were shaking slightly he noticed with a sort of faraway logic which also told him that he was afraid. This was not good, not good at all.

He was lost in a bloody maze in London’s largest night club with a killer who quite likely had at least one if not several knifes on his person, and by the look of the victims knew perfectly well how to handle them. Those boxer’s ears probably meant he wasn’t that bad in a standard knuckle fight either.

He started to slowly back away, calm in a detached sort of way. The lighting was low and his mind, playing tricks on him registered threats everywhere. Flickering shadows as vicious shapes out to get him, to slice and dice at him until there was nothing left. He focused on the pounding from the music. A steady background noise, loud enough to make the walls shake slightly. The beat, in sync with his heart gave him focus.

He turned around, determined to slowly and steadily walk out the way he had come. Someone was walking straight towards him, his mind had time to register the threat and dismiss it in the blink of an eye. This man was someone else, slim and obviously drunk, holding on to the wall as he walked. He was wearing nothing on his upper body and big chains circling narrow hips, the other hand trying to wipe away a strand of long black hair. Or, John thought confused, he was waiving the military sign for take cover, but surely that was his own mind playing tricks on him?

But then maybe not he realised, that thin, still red, scar from the clavicle down he had cleaned and stitched himself. The next moment Sherlock was upon him, pulling at his arm and showing him into a small indentation in the wall pressing him further in as he showed him up against the wall. His taller stature leaning down and when John, still in a confused daze, tried to ask where he had been and why he was dressed like this he covered John’s mouth with his.

John’s brain, which normally functioned quite satisfactory, short circuited, it simply took this opportunity to be elsewhere. John’s body on the other hand did what it normally did when someone kissed him, it kissed back. His lips parted slightly as Sherlock pressed towards them, his tongue licked John’s lips sending shivers to the rest of his body and his mouth opened on its own accord all the way and he leaned into the kiss. Lips meeting his lips, tongue meeting his tongue.

Hands trailed up his sides, one stopping at his waist doing circles over his shirt and the other came up to his chin, forcing his head slightly to the side, long fingers on his cheek and in his hair, sending shivers through his body. John’s hands travelled up a naked back, over scars he by now knew by sight but hadn’t touched, not like this. Sherlock’s skin was warm and dry and he could feel the muscles underneath.

He might have moaned, but he wasn’t sure, as Sherlock pressed him further into the wall, hips grinding towards his, hands travelling down stroking over his hips, pulling him towards him. Lips and tongue never stopping, hot breath meeting his.

John wasn’t sure how long they stood there, hungry mouths and hands going everywhere, the rest of the world forgotten in that very basic and human need to touch and be touched. To feel another human respond to your fingers, shiver under your caress. It had been a long time since John had been this physically close to anyone and he had forgotten the sheer pleasure and comfort it was possible to find in another’s embrace.

Suddenly the spell broke as Sherlock pulled away, raising a hand to his ear.

“Yes,” a small pause.

“Yes, I have him.”

Sherlock grew quiet again as the person on the other side said something.

“Of course,” his hand dropped back down form the ear piece the dark wig hid.

John’s brain took this opportunity to return from its extended holiday. What was going on? He looked as Sherlock straightened up, turning his gaze back to John, he could see his lips, slightly puffy and still wet and suddenly he forgot what he had meant to say.

“That was Lestrade, they spotted him leave, unfortunately he slipped through their blunt fingers.”

“Lestrade?” John managed to squeeze out.

“Yes, I phoned him when you didn’t answer my calls.”

“Where did you get those clothes, not to mention a wig?” John was stalling but he needed time to think, some seconds to try and process what had just happened. However, trying to outthink Sherlock was like trying to stop a tsunami with a piece of string and a paper clip.

“It is surprising what people are prepared to do if you offer them a tailored suit in trade,” He turned away: “Come now we have a killer to catch” John saw him start off down towards the exit and he managed to compose himself enough to follow.

As they ran down the stairs, two steps at a time Sherlock turned to him:

“Good reflex back there, I was afraid you would struggle. Giving yourself away. Seems I underestimated you,” Sherlock gave him a nod that John dimly thought was meant to show approval.

“With this intuition we will make a consulting detective out of you in no time.”

They exited the club and John followed Sherlock up to a, quite clear to anyone, undercover police vehicle. As they closed in on it the rear doors slid open and Lestrade came out to meet them.

“Everything alright?” He asked taking Sherlock’s strange outfit in a stride.

“Indeed, nothing happened, John is as good as new.”

Lestrade motioned them to come inside the van and as John entered he smiled at him, “Glad to see your OK Doctor, would have hated to have you lying in our morgue.”

Nothing had happened? John looked over at Sherlock as he threw away the wig, muscles playing under the skin of his still naked torso. He was giving steady instructions to the driver through the metal grid that separated the two compartments. John took hold on one of the handles hanging from the roof as the van rolled into motion. He watched Sherlock’s profile trying to untangle a very strange sensation in his stomach.

“You are OK, are you not?” Lestrade leaned in, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Yes,” John managed to get out, trying to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers while not falling over as the van lurched trough the London traffic.

“Yes of course,” The second time it came out a bit more believable and he even nodded with it. Of course he was fine, after all nothing had happened.


	2. Beginning is half done

It had been exactly 13 days, 13 hours and three quarters since Holmes had laid his hands on Watson. Not that John was keeping a tally.

The knife killer had been promptly dealt with after Sherlock had deducted just where he would go next from something the rest of them had been unable to understand.

In a mad chase against time they had caught him just as the former pugilist was boarding a ship to Santiago. John could still feel the salty breeze against his face; hear the blare of the foghorn and see Sherlock’s straight back and his scarf flaring in the wind as they ran along the pier.

Lestrade had been pleased beyond words and Sherlock had been smugger than usual. He had wanted to go out, eat and celebrate their victory, which he enthusiastically had ensured would not have been possible without John. He said this and clasped John’s shoulder, long fingers leaving burn marks through his clothes.

John had declined, blaming the sleepless night and retreated to his room. There he had spent fidgety hours lying on top of his covers, fully clothed and staring up at the ceiling, mind a jumbled mess, trying to process.

In those early grey hours of the morning he had vowed to himself to never think about this entire unfortunate event again. He was just overreacting, a result from being tired and lightheaded from not eating enough. After all, it had meant absolutely nothing.

Since then it had been quiet on 221b Baker Street, too quiet perhaps.

-oOo-

John was sitting with his laptop on his knees, forcibly believing in the fact that he didn’t sport a care in the world. Things were normal, dandy even.

He focused on his latest blog post but the words just wouldn’t come. Instead he caught his eyes constantly drifting away from the flickering screen as his concentration faded in and out.

Sherlock was standing in the big bay window, back to him, playing some erratic tune on his violin. His posture straight, neck gracefully bent to allow his head to rest upon the instrument.

Hands, strong and delicate flew over the strings and bow. To John’s ears he seemed to torture the poor Stradivarius but Sherlock had ensured him it was supposed to sound like that. He couldn’t tell but he felt like Sherlock had his eyes closed, face serene as he played.

John shook himself and forced his attention back to the screen, he was going to write this post even if it took him all day. He typed a couple of sentences and then promptly deleted them again.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, this was not going overly well. Over in the window the abuse had stopped and Sherlock was standing motionless, hands down his sides, the instrument hanging limp from his hands.

His normally so well groomed hair was standing on end, making him seem unattuned to the rest of his outfit, the perfect fitting trousers and the pristine, just right, shirt at odds with his ruffled hair.

Watson almost cried out in dismay and yet again forced his eyes to fix upon the screen: “Focus John,” he muttered to himself.

It was of no use, of course, and he probably knew it, although he would never admit it. It had been like this for weeks. The sitting room with all its exotic and strange items had never seemed so small. It was as if the entire room was filled with Sherlock’s presence which was slowly but surely taking over Watson’s every conscious and unconscious thought. John was a man drowning; the very air he breathed was poison.

He often tried to leave. He made plans to go running or see a film or just walk aimlessly around London, but every time he had made up his mind his body refused to move, his limbs grew weak and his back became glued to his chair and he found countless reasons for why this was a bad time to do this or that. This sitting room was his world and denial his air. He would die if he left and perish if he stayed.

John looked as Sherlock stored away his violin, hands stroking lovingly over the old wood as he put it in its case and a hole Watson didn’t even know he had inside him grew a little more.


	3. The dead shall rise

_14 days 7 hours and 3 minutes_

John wrinkled his nose in disgust which twisted into a yawn that in turn almost made him throw up as the foul smelling air was pulled down his oesophagus. He took a slow, shallow breath to get his stomach under control, mentally blaming the fact that he had not had his breakfast yet.

Calm again, John shivered and pulled his jacket closer to stop the ice cold wind trying to sneak its frosty fingers in between the collar and his neck. It was drizzling and everything was a miserable grey, washed out colour. The dead body was no exception.

The corpse in front of him was everything but fresh, the doctor in him told him the man had been lying dead in water several days at least, rigor mortis was long gone and decomposition had started. The man was lying on a thick sheet of plastic the Metropolitan police had placed under him. John knelt down in front of it; at the same time taking temporary cover from the English rain under the baldachin placed to protect the body while the officers of the law gathered their evidence and took their pictures.

Some kids had found the body playing by the Thames; that snaking river running through the entire city of London. The body had stuck underneath a bridge hidden from everyone but adventurous children trying to make a city of concrete and glass into a magical forest.

John carefully turned the man’s left arm over looking at the knuckles, no sign of any struggle. He put the arm down again and the civilian in him told him that this was not something normal people should be doing on their Sunday off.

The body belonged to a somewhat pudgy, white, middle aged man. He was extraordinary ordinary looking, except for the fact that he was grey as the river from which he had been pulled and slightly bloated from being in the water too long. He was wearing a cheap suit and nothing in the form of identification, they would have to wait for a matching missing person or dental records.

“Why am I here?” Sherlock’s clear voice carried through over the slightly muffled background noise that was always present in a city this size, he was addressing Lestrade. His question mirrored John’s, why had the detective inspector called them out here; this seemed to be a simple routine errand? Bodies with their throats slit and missing wallets were pulled from the Thames several times a year. Lestrade sighed and got rid of the plastic coffee cup he had been warming his hands on in the chilly November air as he pulled something from his pockets.

“Because we found this on him,” Lestrade looked almost apologetic as he handed something over to Sherlock, hidden from where John was crouching over the corpse, further down the river bank.

It seemed to John that the D.I. was pointedly only looking at Sherlock, eyes fixed and head slightly angled to one side, wet hair plastered to his face and a single droplet of water dangling precariously from the tip of his nose. But then Holmes was the Consulting Detective stroke genius, so who was John to complain that he was freezing to death and being excluded from the case.

John muttered something well chosen only he could hear and turned his attention back to the stiff. He picked up the other arm studying the fingernails; trying to make himself useful. Doing something also let him ignore the rest of the police force around him. Although the officers in Lestrade’s team was used to both him and Sherlock by now he still got the feeling at times that they were not welcome. Or perhaps it was mostly Sherlock who wasn’t welcome; there was something in his aura telling everyone else that they were inferior beings. Most people found that very discomforting. John didn’t think he did it on purpose; he simply didn’t care enough to hide it.

“I see,” he heard Sherlock reply to Lestrade, after he had looked the thing over, he pocketed it. Lestrade just raised an eyebrow, but did nothing to stop him from taking what must be evidence.

“Come on John, I think we are done here,” Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer but just pulled his gloves on and started to walk away, crouching to lift the stripped plastic band, marked _police_ again and again, over his head, exiting the crime scene. John in turn got up to his feet, ignoring a slight twinge in his leg, shed his plastic gloves and threw them in the make shift hazard bag, shrugged at Lestrade and followed suit.


	4. The ball is in your court

_14 days 9 hours and a quarter_

“Thank you,” Watson said as the waiter brought him a plate of steaming Peking duck. He pushed the chop sticks aside and went for the knife and fork as he put the white, folded napkin on his knee.

They were sitting in a small corner restaurant somewhere in Soho. The place was no more than a hole in the wall, plastic chairs stacked tight around the small round tables. From the ceiling hung Chinese paper lanterns in red and yellow, slightly spotted with dust. The clientele was mostly Asian in origin except for the stray tourist finding their way there on occasion. The food however, was top notch and true to its Chinese roots.

John was eating. Sherlock was not. He had waived aside John’s question about food, as per usual when his mind was occupied with a case. He had been silent all the way here, ignoring John’s questions and attempts at small talk, walking without paying attention to the weekend crowd milling about around them.

John should be used to it by now, the not eating; instead it always came as a reminder how different Sherlock was. How dissimilar from himself. John started on his food, letting Sherlock do his thinking in peace.

He was almost startled when Sherlock suddenly addressed him, while in-between two mouthfuls, “So what is your opinion John?”

John stalled with a sip of his drink, lips pressed against cool glass, “About the body?” he said.

“All of it,” Sherlock casually waved his slim hand while studying John intently. John cringed under the scrutiny, Sherlock in general saw too much.

“Too bad on the children,” John offered, shrugging his shoulders.

“Children, which children?” Sherlock asked him, looking almost confounded, or as close to it as was possible for him to look; one curved brown, eyebrow lifted slightly almost creating a crease on his pale forehead.

“The kids who found him of course. It must have been horrible,” John replied.

Sherlock slapped his hand down on the table surface, noise reverberating in the cubicle sized restaurant, prompting an apprehensive look from the short waiter as the sound echoed, “John, focus on what’s important will you.”

“What? How can that not be important,” John said, “The poor kids might be scared for life, you could show a bit more consideration for people,” He met Sherlock’s eyes angrily and his voice rose towards the end, earning also him an equally warning stare from the waiter. Sherlock was being such an arse, he thought.

“They are children John I’m sure they will have forgotten by teatime and brag to their friends about it by tomorrow morning.” Sherlock met and held his eyes calmly, “Is there something else going on John, something you wish to tell me?”

John choked on whatever answer he had prepared, something locking in his throat. He had been prepared for an argument about the necessity of caring about people, not the worry in Sherlock’s voice. He didn’t answer but instead looked down and tried to skewer his already dead duck.

As he put all his attention back to his meal he contemplated a bit bitterly that maybe Sherlock was right, of course. The children would be alright, children are much sturdier than people generally believe. And of course John wasn’t really angry about that, but neither could he put words to what was really troubling him; he couldn’t even untangle it himself. Something had changed for him that night at the club, something he refused to acknowledge. After all, if he ignored it long enough surely it would go away by itself?

Sherlock had also proven over the last weeks that according to him, everything was normal. For him, nothing of importance had occurred between them.

John mumbled something non consequential while refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He ate the rest of his food in silence and afterwards he pushed the plate away while turning to look out the window; outside darkness was settling early like a heavy blanket over the city. The days were still growing shorter as they neared the winter solstice.

A drizzle was still falling from the overcast sky and the sodium lights were reflecting streaks of yellow on the wet asphalt. In the window glass he could see Sherlock’s ghostly image, his hands clasped under his chin as he calmly pondered the case. How could Sherlock have turned his entire world upside down without even noticing?


	5. Give and take is fair play

_15 days 14 hours and 16 minutes_

It was late afternoon. John was enjoying a steaming cup of tea and wondering where Sherlock had disappeared to. Since their almost fight yesterday they hadn’t really talked. In the evening John had gone straight to bed, tossing and turning the entire night and when he finally managed to fall asleep had woken sweaty from a dream about walking up and down a never-ending staircase.

Work at the clinic was finished for the day and since he had a rare moment to himself he thought he would finish that blog post about the Case of the Pugilist Killer. He opened his word processor, took a sip of tea and let the warm liquid spread in his belly. He cracked his knuckles and started working.

Two hours later he had produced all of one sentence, it looked pitifully alone and deserted on the blank screen. He leaned back in his chair reflecting on how easy life had been in the army, just duck if people were shooting at you and follow orders.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes; he supposed this was what his therapist had meant by repression. That was not really his experiences of the war but he did not care to think about those memories any more than what was causing his writer’s block.

“Good, you are here,” Sherlock swept in the room, like a tornado, filling the room with that intense energy that followed him around. He discarded his coat on the floor and threw himself down on the coach.

“Where would I be?” John was actually curious about what Sherlock though he really did when he was not following him around cleaning up whatever mess he had made. Sometimes he wondered if that wasn’t the reason why he had needed all of a tenth of a second to decide to work with Sherlock.

In a sense he was doing the same thing that he had been doing in the army, walking behind the devastation patching people up that got hurt in the storm. There it had been physical wounds, here they were mostly mental, witnesses frightened or people intimidated by Sherlock. Now John was at the centre of the storm, who would put him back together?

Sherlock didn’t answer his question. Instead he let the fingers of his hands meet up in a pyramid closing his eyes, “Can you throw me a new packet of nicotine patches John.”

John looked around and realized the patches were on the coffee table, closer to Sherlock than him, “Get them yourself, I am working.”

“You are not.”

“What do you mean I am not?” John tried his best to sound offended.

“You never bring work home from the clinic and you have no papers or journals indicating that you would have done so today. This tells me you that by work you mean writing that...” Sherlock paused, “...allegory of our cases.”

“My blog happens to have a large group of followers I have you know,” John knew he would lose, one did not argue with Sherlock on these matters, but there was no way he could stop himself.

“You haven’t posted anything new in two weeks John. You are obviously suffering a writer’s block or whatever you blogger persons call it. A blogger’s block?”

John did not deign to answer or rise to the bait by being called a blogger, instead he got up and threw the hard, square package of nicotine patches at Sherlock, who either pretended not to notice or simply didn’t that the force of the throw was slightly more than was necessary.

He looked on in, he had to admit, slightly sullen silence as Sherlock rolled up his charcoal grey jumper sleeve and added a patch to his arm. He smiled in content as the alkaloid was released from its sticky home on the patch and spread in his system. John noticed that there already was one badge next to it.

“We need to talk John.”

He almost jumped as Sherlock spoke.

“What do you mean?” He supposed the slight trembling in his voice could be contributed to a mass of reasons; it could be neurological for instance. He should order an electromyogram to _diagnose_ himself for any muscle or nerve problems.

“John, why won’t you tell me what’s been on your mind recently,” Sherlock was looking at him now from his reclining position; there was something in his voice John thought, something he should recognise. John on the other hand felt paralyzed, like a small rodent caught in the flare of the headlights from a car closing in fast. When he didn’t answer straight away Sherlock gave him a measured look and continued.

“Tell me about this John,” Sherlock sat up in one fluid motion, he seemed serious and John forgot about neurodegenerative diseases and whatnot. Sherlock’s clear eyes fixed on him and he held out a folded note wrapped in plastic towards him, John took it feeling apprehensive.

He unfolded it and read: “Merry Christmas John Watson. From Father Christmas.” The note had a little bell and a holly leaf printed on it and the ‘Merry Christmas’ part and ‘From’ was pre-printed, on the empty, dotted lines someone had written his name and Father Christmas with a green pencil.

He looked at it dumbfounded, “It’s a month left to Christmas Sherlock, and usually these things come attached to a gift of some sort.”

“It did, it was found on our floater, in fact it was the only thing they found on him.”

John hated these moments when nothing Sherlock said made sense because now he would have to ask what floater and Sherlock would roll his eyes in exasperation at him.

“Floater?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation at John, “The dead man we fished out from the Thames, you remember him, could use a tan.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? Lestrade finds this on a corpse and oh is your answer?” Sherlock looked baffled, leaning over the coffee table towards Watson, intense eyes burning a hole in John’s head.

“So this is what you wanted me to talk about?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

John mentally called himself every name he had ever heard of, starting with stupid and ending with not even fit to be the arse on an arse.

Off course this was what Sherlock had meant, the case. Why had he believed there had been something else in his voice when the consulting detective had spoken, he stomped a couple of times on a strange feeling that had flared for an instant in his stomach.

“I have no idea, please tell me,” He gave the plastic laminated sticker back to Sherlock, for some reason he didn’t like holding it.

“I was hoping you would tell me,” Sherlock said as he took the note. He observed John in that cataloguing way of his, noticing and analysing every movement, every detail.

“I’m sorry, I have never seen that man before,” John said, not aware of Sherlock’s intense scrutiny. His mind was miles away wondering what was going on, why Lestrade had found that on the corpse and most of all why it was a Christmas label.


	6. Blood will out

_17 days 12 hours and 33 minutes_

Sherlock was looking at John. In some ways he was always looking at John.

The man shook his head, a small movement, neck bending only slightly. He looked calm, focused. Like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The place, the physical location, not the metaphorical, was absolutely covered in blood.

A normal human contains approximately 5,6 litres and right now it seemed like this man had been drained of every drop. Crusted red and black on the floor and walls of the tiny bathroom stall, bleeding into the cracks of the worn tiles where it still hadn’t coagulated properly. The air was filled with a stale metallic odour which stuck to your skin and spoke of violent death.

The fluorescent light in the ceiling flickered and it seemed like the walls were shaking slightly from the loud music pounding in from the gym outside. The body, as the one before, was a nondescript middle-aged man; he wore a similar cheap suit and no form of identification.

Lestrade, dark bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep, left hand fidgeting from a bad coffee habit, had informed them that they were still trying to match the dental record from the last victim, so far without success.

John turned his attention to the corpse. Sherlock did too. The man was lying on his back, legs twisted in unnatural shapes to fit around the toilet bowl. His eyes were still open, slightly glazed and staring lifeless into the distant ceiling. Over the body, a handful of pennies were scattered. There was no sign of struggle.

“What is your opinion John?” Sherlock asked.

“Dead for 9 to 11 hours, cause of death a sharp object, probably a razor, which punctured the main artery in his neck,” John pointed at a thin, seemingly innocent, red line at the left side of the victim’s neck.

“This drained the body of blood thereby killing him. It would have taken a minute, less perhaps. He obviously died here judging from all the blood. It could have been a suicide,” The last he added hesitantly, voice lower towards the end, making it not a question and rather a lapsed thought. Wish more than belief, Sherlock thought.

“Don’t be silly, it is quite obviously the same killer as last time,” Sherlock said before something more considerate could have time to form. He studied the wall where somebody with the dead man’s blood had written: _John, the dead shall rise!_

“Yeah, I think there is no doubt about that one,” Lestrade agreed looking over at Watson. “We should put you in custody for your own safety John. Until this is all over.”

“That seems ill advised,” Sherlock replied distantly as he was studying the writing with his loupe.

“He would be safe, police looking over him 24-7,” Lestrade said, slightly dour that Sherlock doubted him or his police force; maybe both.

“There is something not quite right here,” Sherlock took a step back from the wall ignoring the police. He spun on his heel taking in the entire scenery. From the body on the floor to Lestrade’s unkept appearance and John’s worried but strangely distant gaze.

“It is all so obvious, so blatant. And this killing doesn’t really match the last one, the approach is completely different,” Sherlock shook his head, “Maybe there are two killers,” he did not feel convinced.

He let his gaze stop at John, studying him intently, from the blond curls on his head and weather beaten looks to dark blue button down and brown leather shoes. Here, Sherlock idly thought as so many times before, is the greatest mystery of them all. John should be freaking out, yet he was not.

He turned back to Lestrade and continued, “Even an absolute moron would realize that putting John into custody is what we would do. And this killer is clearly not an idiot. There are at least seven security cameras in the locale and none managed to capture either this victim or anyone else remotely suspicious. No one working here saw or heard anything.”

“John?” Lestrade raised a questioning eyebrow at the man, not even bothering asking why Sherlock knew about the cameras or that the staff hadn’t seen anything.

“I have to agree with Sherlock, I will not let this person, whoever it is, scare me into hiding.”

Lestrade nodded, it was John’s decision after all. “I will station an undercover patrol outside your place,” This is not negotiable,” He added, putting on his stern police face when John looked like he would start to argue. Sherlock didn’t bother; this was inconsequential after all.

“We still don’t know anything about the killer,” he said directed at John when he was sure he wasn’t going to dispute the patrol further.

“Wrong again we know plenty,” Sherlock folded his loupe away, tucking it into the inside coat pocket and at their blank faces proceeded to explain.

“It is a man; he is most likely a social recluse although he is possibly religious, member of a church or has been recently. He prefers his left hand and is well built, quite probably a former athlete of some sort and he could have been through some sort of medical training.” When none of them replied, Sherlock shook his head and mumbled some well-chosen words his mother would pale at if she heard.

“The writing is smudged in a way that only left hand writers do, the shape of the vowels indicates a man who received his schooling in the 60’s. The victims have both been cut on the right side of their necks, the angle of the cut indicates that the assailant stood in front of the victim, however, there is no sign of struggle, suggesting that he drugged his victims elsewhere before killing them here.”

“But we found no drugs in the system of the other victim,” Lestrade replied.

“Which is what is telling us that he has medical training, now will you stop interrupt,” Lestrade just shook his head at Sherlock but he stayed quiet.

Sherlock continued his deductions, his mind ablaze as he connected the pieces of the puzzle, each revealing itself slowly before him, “The victim might have been killed here but was most likely picked up somewhere else; you see that stain on the left trouser leg?” John bent down, glowed fingers pointing at it, not touching, as Sherlock waved towards it.

John said, “It looks like mud, but there is only a stain on one leg, not both. Surely if he had been walking on his own there would be mud on both? God knows the weather is bad enough”

“You are quite correct John,” A smile slipped out before Sherlock could supress it.

“Quite likely the victim was unconscious and carried here, it takes a lot of strength to overpower and carry a man that size, the assailant must have dropped a leg at one point.”

John started up again looking at the pennies lying in the drying blood. “I am guessing you got religious from these?”

“Yes, clearly,” Sherlock nodded, dark curls falling into his eyes and brushed aside again, “Silver for a traitor, like the bag of silver Judas Iscariot got for betraying Jesus,” Sherlock pulled one of the pennies free with tiny tweezers, a layer of coagulated blood still stuck to it.

“Although, these are modern pennies which don’t contain any silver, still, the gesture seems clear,” He put the coin in a small bag and handed it over to Lestrade.

“Still not enough to issue a warrant or arrest on,” Lestrade muttered.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “We need to know the connection between the two victims.”

“Does it have to be a connection; could it just be random?” John asked.

“There is always a connection,” Sherlock replied, “Always.”


	7. Two of a kind

_18 days 9 hours and 33 minutes_

The morgue was brightly lit. The fluorescent light from the ceiling drenched the sterile environment with its unforgiving intensity, emphasising the sharp edges between the white tiles and chromed fixtures.

Sherlock, dressed in a white lab coat, was leaning over dead man number two, whose skin was so white it was competing with the walls, lips blue, drained of any colour. Having your body emptied of blood does that to a person. Sherlock didn’t notice; he was looking for something else. What, he wasn’t sure about yet; but there was always something which connected victims in cases like this. Always.

Behind him on an identical stretcher dead man number one was lying equally still.

It was lunch hour so Sherlock was all alone, the staff normally milling about in the Scotland Yard morgue was off somewhere eating and laughing together, something he was grateful for. No one to disturb him, just him and the dead.

He circled slowly around dead man number two for what must be the eleventh time, looking for that something he was missing. He knew that if he just persisted then eventually they would talk to him, give up all of their secrets. It was just a matter of knowing what to listen for, and he was good at this, had always been good at this. Corpses had never disturbed him like they did other people; they never judged you after all. Wouldn’t stare at you sideways when they thought you weren’t looking.

Being different is never easy, it doesn’t matter how intelligent you are.

Sherlock switched to dead man number one. Inch over inch he searched for that something; that piece of evidence which would let him save John. He was convinced that the murderer was only working his way towards his friend; soon they would make an attempt. John who never judged him and who always laughed with him, at all his weirdness, never at him. John who, for some mysterious reason, got him.

At the next pass Sherlock finally spotted something, an anomaly which didn’t fit the pattern. With two rubber clad hands he gently spread the dead man’s toes and there it was. At a passing glance it looked like a birth mark between the second and third toe. If it hadn’t been for both corpses sharing the same birthmark in the exact same place, the odds for that was about 1:1357000 and therefore highly unlikely Sherlock concluded.

It was a scar, one of those old ones people used to get when tattoo removal wasn’t fancy lasers which break down the colour pigment but rather were removed with a knife or burned away. Sherlock felt that familiar rush, like the most perfect high, filling him as things shifted and moved in his head, as the pieces of the puzzle started to reveal themselves. These moments were why he did this; when the world sharpened its edges and everything became clear, Sherlock lives.

He moved back to the other body and clear as day now that he knows what to look for he saw the ruined tattoo, not a birthmark after all, and moreover, he could almost make out the remnants of black ink, the faintest layout of a symbol.

With fluid, practiced movement, entire being in perfect focus, he attempted to recreate the symbol; everything else but him and the mystery forgotten as he lost himself in the feeling.

-oOo-

“But John, won’t you please reconsider this.”

It would have been easier if D.I. Lestrade’s voice hadn’t been so laced with concern John thought. Somewhere along the line they had become friends and now John suspected it was the friend and not the officer of the law who was talking.

John sighed, shaking his head, “No sorry, I won’t hide, I just won’t.”

Lestrade nodded, he could see that this wouldn’t lead anywhere. Not to say that he would stop trying to bully John into a safe house, just that he would put it off to a later date.

The two men were sharing lunch; Lestrade, who looked perhaps even more tired than the other day had shown up at the clinic, wearing civilian clothes, asking John to eat with him. John, pleased that he had an excuse to throw away his canteen with leftovers, gladly agreed.

“So how is Sherlock doing in all this?” Lestrade said as he finished the last pieces of his Shepherd’s pie.

“Oh you know, his normal exuberant self,” John answered, although, truth be told he hadn’t seen much of his flat mate lately.

He didn’t really want to talk about Sherlock right now, but on the other hand he knew it was unavoidable. By some unspoken agreement Sherlock was always at the top of the agenda when they met, perhaps simply by being the thing they had in common; their friendship with that mysterious creature.

“I haven’t seen him today though,” He finally admitted when Lestrade seemed to wait for something more.

“It is too bad, you have to look after him you know,” said Lestrade as he put knife and fork neatly on the side of his empty plate wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“Why, what do you mean?” John was intrigued, what did he mean by that? Surely Sherlock, if anyone, didn’t want somebody looking after him?

Lestrade looked out the window a faraway look as his eyes followed a woman out walking a Labrador clearly without really seeing her. He said, without turning to face John, “I don’t think you fully appreciate how much he has changed since you two moved in together. This will be hard on him, maybe more difficult for him than it is for you.”

Changed? John stayed quiet; normally Lestrade was closemouthed to talk about Sherlock from before John’s time.

When he didn’t reply Lestrade continued, “You have calmed him down. There used to be a sort of raw edge to him which I rarely see anymore.” He turned and looked back at John over the table, “You are good for him John.”

John tried to keep his face blank but he found himself breaking eye contact with his friend quickly, hiding it by checking his watch. What was Lestrade aiming at?


	8. Where there's a will, there's a way

_18 days 14 hours and 44 minutes_

Sherlock was sitting in a Starbucks on a side street close to Piccadilly Circus. He had a window seat, untouched paper coffee cup beside him as he pretended to use his blackberry.

He hated Starbucks, they all looked the same, the coffee always tasted the same and the staff never stayed long enough for you to recognise them, always new spotty teenagers replacing the old. Sherlock preferred to visit the same places over and over, people he already knew who would take his eccentricities as they were.

But this Starbucks had been the only cafe or restaurant with a window facing the office he was staking out. So he sat in his uncomfortable plastic chair, trying to avoid getting upset by the smell of bake-up bread and detergent.

On the other side of the street was a pharmacy and an off-licence, the irony in placing those two next to each other amused Sherlock and he wished John had been there so he could point out another fallacy of the human race to him.

He shook his head slightly, dark curls bouncing of his forehead, now why would he want to do that? It just wasn’t logical and John would probably only shake his head at him, telling him something about why the rest of humanity really didn’t care about things like that to which Sherlock wouldn’t pay any attention because he would be busy looking at how the strip light in the ceiling was reflecting in John’s hair.

But thinking of John troubled him; recently there had been something different about his friend. Sherlock still hadn’t managed to figure out quite what it was that had changed but when he was alone with nothing to do but wait he had to admit to himself that he was worried; John had been pulling away. Putting up a wall between them that had not been there before.

The unease in his stomach at that thought was something new for Sherlock. It disconcerted him. Lately he had come to realise that he needed John. His life had changed since they had met, for the better.

However, right now, he had more important things on his mind than his feelings, he had to keep John safe, which went far beyond anything else at present.

Sherlock suddenly jumped up, all energy and perfect alacrity as a small door opened next to the off-license. A small elegant brass plaque next to the door bell said: “ _Diocece pro pax_ ”. The door closed behind a dark haired woman clad in a close fitting, beige trench coat and high heels. She looked mid 30 but it was hard to tell from this distance, she could just be dressing young. She opened her umbrella against the rain and started off down the street with determined steps.

Sherlock left his untouched coffee cup behind and followed at a distance as she crosses into Regent Street. The city was filled with early Christmas shoppers and Sherlock had no trouble following her unseen, weaving his way between stressed out moms and posh couples. The woman continued in on Burton Street and slowly criss-cross her way along the smaller roads until she reached Park Lane.

Eventually she walked away from crowded streets of central London and stroke up on a path into Hyde Park; here Sherlock had to be more careful. The rain had changed into slate, mixed by feet into a grey slush on the ground and the park was almost empty with the exception of a red-faced man walking with those ludicrous sticks and a couple jogging. Sherlock slowed down; letting the woman get a head start before he himself entered the open grass lawns of the park.

Rounding a corner Sherlock saw the woman standing still, looking out over a pond and seemingly finding the random pattern the slate was creating on the surface worth studying. He stopped behind a huge evergreen, whose name was just one of those things he had never been bothered to learn in school. Collar upturned, hands in pockets he stood still ignoring the downpour, now it was just a matter of time.

It didn’t take long before the woman was joined by a man; tall and well built he had a similarly black umbrella pulled low, hiding his facial features. They greeted each other and Sherlock thought he saw a package changing hands, from the woman to the man. Sherlock made a split second decision and decided to follow the man as they separated, walking their own ways.

The man walked rapidly and Sherlock unexpectedly found it hard to keep up. He increased the length of his steps, splashing cold mud around as he walked. They exited the park, the man and his shadow, crossing the street, barely avoiding the busy London traffic. Sherlock rounded a corner and the man was gone. Head spinning he rushed up to the next corner, where could he have gone?

The doors around were just resident houses; it seemed unlikely that the man would have entered any of them. Sherlock suddenly heard a car engine, the humming sound piercing through the noise of rain and slate patting down on his head. He took the last steps up to the intersection in a few giant leaps, hearth pounding loud in his chest.

To his left in a small ally he saw the man throw himself hurriedly into the back door of a black Mercedes. Umbrella discarded haphazardly on the wet sidewalk.

The car’s tires screamed and the scent of burning rubber filled his nostrils, Sherlock ran, feet pounding madly and he almost managed to lay a hand on the car before it was gone down the street and disappeared around a corner; its dark toned windows never revealing its passengers.

Sherlock stopped in his track, turned and kicked the umbrella so hard he almost spun around on his heel, cloak flaring behind him. He was angry, angry the man had gotten away, angry that he had lost the trail. He rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. Now they knew somebody was on their trail. Nothing was going the way it should, he was still one step behind and while he was failing John’s life was in danger. He threw his arms out and screamed at the sky in pure frustration. Over on his left a dog answered, barking with him at the overcast heavens.

Sherlock collected himself and the umbrella and decided to walk back home. Maybe a proper stretch would clear his head.


	9. If it can't be cured, it must be endured

_19 days 12 hours and 19 minutes_

John closed the door behind him and put his bag of groceries on the kitchen table: milk, tea, noodles, bread, and a jar of marmite, that oh so English condiment. Not for himself, he absolutely abhorred marmite with all the zealousness and passion he could muster but Sherlock for some reason loved it.

Focused on his task, take groceries out of bag, put groceries in correct places, avoid looking at suspect experiment in the fridge, he was startled when he heard a sudden sneeze from the sitting room.

Putting the kettle on and turning around he found Sherlock on the sofa, hair plastered to his scalp, a puddle of wet carpet on the floor next to him where water was dripping from his hand hanging over the edge.

“You are wet,” he said.

“So it seems,” Sherlock answered through slightly blue lips, not moving.

“Yes but normally people tend to use their umbrellas, or just stay indoors,” John said gesturing at the black umbrella Sherlock was still holding.

“This is not my umbrella,” Sherlock answered and John could have sworn he was teasing him with that almost smile on his lips and was on the verge of simply walking away and leaving Sherlock in his mess when he sneezed again.

John sighed, “You should get out of those clothes before you catch a cold.”

“I suppose that is something normal people would do,” Sherlock answered letting his gaze fall on the grey miserable rain falling outside the window.

“Well people who are not normal I am quite sure also does this,” John answered shaking his head as he left to find a towel which he threw at Sherlock.

Sherlock let go of the umbrella, which once discarded rolled onto the floor where it lay abandoned, and just turned the towel over in his hands, “Am I not normal then?”

John stopped the sharp retort that instinctively formed on the tip of his tongue; there was something fragile in Sherlock’s voice. Instead he walked over and picked the towel from Sherlock’s cold fingers and towelled his hair until it stopped dripping.

“Let me help you get out of this coat Sherlock,” John said, pulling at the wet garment.

Sherlock obeyed, sitting up and letting John peel the coat off him. As John’s fingers brushed over his shoulders he could feel that he was drenched to the bone, his body shivering from the cold.

“You should take better care of yourself Sherlock.”

“Why?”

Why? Well there was the obvious answer, just because. And not so obvious answers, people do because it is expected of them. Moreover, Lestrade is depending on you. People in general, even though they don’t know you exist are depending on you to keep them safe. Me, I am depending on you not to say the least. Somehow John didn’t think any of these answers would work on Sherlock.

“Just try to keep focused; Lestrade needs you for the case Sherlock. What good would you do, out with a cold?”

He could feel Sherlock’s body stiffen under his touch, “Lestrade, the case, off course I need to focus.”

John didn’t know what to do with the hesitant tone of Sherlock’s voice.

“Isn’t cases like this what you live for?” he tried.

“I am not sure right now,” Sherlock answered a distant look in his eyes. He seemed to gaze all the way through John into some place where he could not follow.

Like this, soaked to the bone and brooding, he looked almost vulnerable. How someone so brilliant at the same time could seem so clueless about other things, like keeping dry when it was raining, was a mystery to John.

John dropped the towel on the floor and for a second lost in thought, his fingers did what they wanted to on their own accord. They reached out and carefully stroked away that stubborn lock of wet hair plastered to Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock looked so cold, lips a sort or blue, grey shade, slim shoulders shaking involuntary from the cold. But as John’s fingers made contact with his forehead, for John, he seemed to be hotter than a furnace.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s hand shoot out grabbing John’s in a vice like grip.

John froze, what was he doing?

“Can I, can I get you a cup of tea?” John managed. He pulled himself up to his feet, faster than was probably necessary ripping his hand from Sherlock’s grip as he rose. He could still feel Sherlock’s fingers, cold and hard around his wrist and he had to stop himself looking for marks. He took a shallow breath and smiled; he hadn’t done anything after all, he ignored the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Try to get out of those wet clothes, you need to get warm.”

Sherlock just nodded in acquiescent as John went into the kitchen. John was not at all aware of the slight sucking noise produced as Sherlock made good of his request and shrugged his shirt off.

He took his time and when he came back, balancing a tray with two cups and the blue and white china pot his sister had bought for him as a sort of ‘forgive me’ present three years ago for breaking his old one, Sherlock had moved into a proper sitting position and even unfolded the towel and made a half hearted attempt at wrapping it around his own shoulders.

John set the tray down on the table and poured them a cup of steaming Darjeeling each, noticing that the latest scar on Sherlock’s chest was pale and healed now, before sitting down in his usual chair.

They drank their tea in silence, John even picked up a paper which he tried to read, something about a record breaking Christmas tree being put up.

Sherlock seemed to be reading his fortune in the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup. When the silence became unbearable John put down his paper and got up thinking he should go to bed.

“You never answered my question John,” When Sherlock broke the silence it was with his normal tone, indifferent, blasé. He was leaning back, damp curls pointing in all directions, pale chest still naked and John found it hard to look away let alone remember what he was supposed to be answering.

Sherlock had an unusual amount of small scars for a man his age, criss-crossing his upper body in thin lines. As his chest rose and fell they created a spread out web that seemed to move and shift, John had to fight the urge to go over there and let his fingers follow all the lines. It made him sick at heart to think of all the times Sherlock had been hurt and no one had been there.

“You lost the ability to talk?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioning at him. John wondered if the earlier break in his countenance had been a delusion on his part.

“Good night Sherlock,” John turned around and walked slowly up the stairs even though his head was telling him to run away, and run away fast.


	10. In for a penny, in for a pound

_19 days 10 hours and 59 minutes_

“Well that does sound worrying indeed Mrs Smith, you better tell me from the start.” The thin, gray-haired woman for a second forgot to look miserable at John and started on a rambling tale that he knew from experience, as her doctor, would offer him no new insights into her condition. He nodded at what seemed like reasonable intervals and let his mind drift. Mrs Smith suffered from chronic bronchitis and was just in for her monthly check-up, but he had learned that the appointment would go that much faster if he just let her talk first.

Today it was about how young people today lacked respect for the elderly, something he was quite sure wasn’t really anything which had changed all that much, it was just something young people didn’t notice until they were old themselves and therefore assumed had been better in the past. Interrupting her was, however, not a good idea, and she was just lonely after all.

John nodded and mumbled something in agreement, his mind busy with other things. Just before Mrs Smith had arrived Sherlock had texted him, telling him not to wait up. John pondered what he could have planed which he was not telling him about. Something was going on; he felt it so bad he could taste it.

Contemplating his options he decided to text back, carefully under the table. It only took half a minute until he could feel his phone vibrating in his hand, making his palm tingle. He peeked a glance, under the pretence of finding a new pen in the drawer.

_Lead in case. As said back late. SH_

The text stated with little black digital letters on the screen of his phone. John looked at them intently, as if they would start a tango if he just glared hard enough. The case, his case? John thought, because surely this was his case, everything centred around him. The last couple of days he had just been walking around waiting for the consulting detective to tell him what he had learnt, but Sherlock had been secretive so far.

This just would not do John thought, why was Sherlock trying to do this on his own, didn’t he trust him? John scratched his chin absently, his finger tracing the fine stubble already covering it, even though he had shaved that very morning. He nodded at Mrs Smith who had just said something quite derisive about bus drivers and made a decision: this would have to end.

“I am so sorry Mrs Smith but I just recalled that I have a very important appointment and I need to leave straight away,” He wasn’t sure if the woman was more surprised that he interrupted her or that he was already out of his chair grabbing his jacket from the hanger in the corner before he had finished speaking.

“Please,” He said and gestured at the door, urging her to leave, “I am so sorry. The reception will book you a new appointment.”

“Girl trouble I bet, well I have been young once, don’t let an old lady stop you Doctor.” John almost thought she snickered slightly at that.

“No, not at all I assure you,” Just a mad detective he thought.

“Well in my book the more they protest the more it rings true,” And this time she did snicker.

-oOo-

John took the stairs three steps at a time, just waiving at Mrs Hudson trying to approach to him in the hallway. When he came into the apartment, it was empty. He felt the cushions on the couch; he was learning after all, they were still warm, Sherlock could not have been gone for more than a minute or two.

He rushed back down the stairs, holding the smooth mahogany banister to keep from tumbling over shouting, “Later,” to Mrs Hudson over his shoulder as he ran back out the door.

Outside he looked in every direction but could not see Sherlock anywhere. He had managed to avoid Lestrade’s shadow, leaving the undercover police car outside the clinic as he took the backdoor out; they would just be in the way, so there was no witnesses as to where Sherlock might have gone. He ran up to the nearest intersection and cast a glance around the corner, hoping to spot a taxi stuck in traffic, but no luck.

He continued up to the next intersection, waiving at a group of small children looking at him as he ran. They shouted after him, wondering why he was running, but he ignored them; he had important things on his mind. At that thought John stopped in his track, a strange and uninvited question sneaking up on him. He wondered weakly why it hadn’t seem odd to him that he had just left work for the sole reason to find Sherlock and insist that whatever he had planned, John was coming too. He had just left a patient and appointments, grabbed his pea coat and left, not looking back.

It wasn’t even as if he was very invested in the case, it was strange but he wasn’t. After all, really, it had to be a joke or something, he was just a normal bloke. Normal people, people like him, didn’t have enemies. Extraordinary, special people had enemies, people like Sherlock. He was just John Watson and he had a sneaking suspicion that he had just been walking around waiting for someone to say, “Surprise!”

Maybe ignoring things won’t make them go away John allowed himself to think and he felt his stomach sinking, maybe someone was actually after him personally, however unlikely it might seem. There was this dark shadow waiting at the edge of that thought, something wholly unconnected to Sherlock and John feared it would take him over if he acknowledged it. He had always believed that if he pretended things like this didn’t exist, like a monster under the bed, they would simply stop existing convinced by John’s silent treatment that maybe they had never been real after all.

His throat clenched, from more than the frantic running, but John ignored it skilfully; he has had lots of practise. He snapped back and focused on the now instead, on finding Sherlock and banished the doubts to the back of his mind, whatever was happening, Sherlock would figure it out.

He realised that this running was utterly pointless and felt a bit ashamed, he needed to stop and make a plan, he needed to think. He returned to the flat and waved off Mrs Hudson yet again and started up the stairs.

“I swear the attitude of young people now days,” Mrs Hudson shouted after him. It made John stop in his track. What would he do without her; he really should try to be more considerate.

“I am sorry Mrs Hudson, but I need to find Sherlock and I am in a hurry you see.”

“If you would just stop and listen,” She shook her head and muttered something that surely wasn’t a bad word? “I have the address you see, the one he ordered the cabby for.”

John just stared at her feeling very, very stupid, “You have?”

“Yes, I was out here getting my mail when he ran down the stairs like he had the dark one on his trail ordering a car as he ran,” the old lady shook her grey curls at that. In her book, order and courteousness was the way to approach life.

John spontaneously kissed her on the forehead, smiling at her, “Thank you, thank you Mrs Hudson. Where did he go?”


	11. Third time’s the charm

_19 days 12 hours and 19 minutes_

When John reached the address it was just an empty warehouse, cracked, red brick walls and boarded up windows. He tried to read the old painted letters on the wall but they were to worn for him to make it out. In the last second he remembered to let the cabby pass and drop him of a block away, Sherlock would have been proud.

He paid the driver who made off in a hurry, not a place she had wanted to stay a moment longer than she had too. It was a rundown neighbourhood; all empty buildings and graffiti tags covering every free surface. One of those project zones that sometimes got forgotten in city planning until someone high up decides that gentrification finally has reached the area and money is to be made. The people residing are forced out and new shopping centres with shiny trolleys spring up as out of nowhere.

He started to walk towards the correct address, trying to look like he belonged in the place, something he doubted he was succeeding with. He blamed his comfortable English, middle class upbringing for that.

“Si’, spa’e some chan’e’?” John just shook his head at the tramp huddling at the corner and walked past, intent on his goal.

“Not very nice Doctor, also quite stupid, always enlist the locals in a place like this. Haven’t I told you before,” The huddling and the heavy cockney accent gone and John nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Sherlock?”

“Well of course, who did you think?” John didn’t even bother trying to tell him it was a rhetorical question.

“I am coming with you.”

“Well I gathered that by your presence, but no. Just turn around and go home,” Sherlock the tramp shook his head.

John had expected resistance and so had come prepared, “No. This concerns me and I am coming. Besides, in the past I have been good at keeping you in one piece.”

“In the past no one were gunning for you, this could get dangerous and I rather not see you hurt,” Sherlock’s face betrayed nothing, “Just let me do this John,” he added.

“We can do this all day or you just let me in on this, saving us both time and effort,” John set his jaw; he would not be bullied out of this.

Sherlock nodded, probably realising that his friend would not budge on this.

“Ok, we go this way. I have already scouted the building,” He waved at John to follow him into the alley behind him. Once the decision was made he wasted no time.

“What is this place anyway?” John whispered as he followed closely behind Sherlock.

“The building is an old warehouse for an organisation known as _Diocece pro pax,_ they rent it through a decoy which is why it took me some time to locate it,” Sherlock rolled up the sleeves on his ill-fitting tracksuit jacket. It had a large misshaped stain on the back; John tried not to guess where it had come from.

“I’m sorry?” Confusion visible on John’s face.

“You see there is always a connection,” Sherlock crouched in front of a door and pulled out what John assumed was a lock picking set. He decided to take an interest in the graffiti instead, what you didn’t know couldn’t come back and bite you.

“The victims were both members, well, former members to be precise.”

As he fiddled with the lock Sherlock told him about the tattoo and that it was a mark of membership to a Christian cult, very small, very secret.

“They were involved in some dubious activities during the Second World War but nobody could prove anything,” Sherlock took out a curved piece of steel and slid it into the lock just above his other hand, working deftly as he talked.

“How do you know all this?” John asked.

“I phoned Mycroft.”

“You what?”

“Yes well I needed the information and he had it.” John was touched; he had done that for him?

“But what does it mean?” John asked curious, he had never heard of this group and he wasn’t particularly religious either except being baptised in the Church of England at birth, how could it be connected to him?

“That my friend is what we are here to find out,” The door opened with a slight click and Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

-oOo-

The place was as run down on the inside as it had appeared on the outside. If it had been used for anything recently any traces were long gone. The only thing they found was some leftover junk from what must have been squatters; explaining the heavy looks on the door, maybe.

John trailed behind Sherlock up a littered corridor illuminated only from small regularly placed skylights. It was dead quiet; the only sound came from their footsteps as the rubble underneath crumbled slightly as they walked.

John whished dearly that he had brought his gun, the place might seem empty but he had an itch between his shoulder blades, reminiscent of the feeling you get when someone is watching you.

He was just about to tell Sherlock that they should go back, or phone Lestrade for backup when Sherlock opened one of the doors into the storage part of the building and entered. Inside was a huge room, gigantic beams criss-crossing far above their heads and ancient pillars reaching down to the floor at regular intervals. The room was empty except for a body lying on its back in the middle of the room. It was a woman this time, still ordinary looking and in the same type of suit as the men, this one slightly too large.

She was lying with her arms straight out from her body as if she had been crucified and there was blood pooled around her wrists where huge open gashes still looked red and fresh. John rushed forward, feet turning up dust as he ran over the dirt floor and falling to his knees beside her, feeling her pulse and checking her breath, but to no use. Scattered leisurely around her body where bright newly minted pennies. He shook his head slightly at Sherlock, they were too late.

Sherlock, looking ridicules in his tattered clothing, came up and stood beside. He tore of the dirt blond wig he had been wearing as he looked down on the woman and looked as if to speak when all hell broke loose.

John wasn’t really clear about what happened after this, it all went too fast. Sherlock suddenly ducked and rolled to his left shouting at him, “Duck!”

Out of old military reflexes he did, as he rolled he felt air shift where he had been a second ago. Clambering up on his feet he came eye to eye with a man in black, pulling back to strike again with a shiny, new cricket bat. He rolled again, barely avoiding the blow; feeling it graze his shoulder.

In the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock landing a kick to the knee of another man felling him to the ground. John came up on his feet again, dancing away facing his own adversary, who had now become two. He swirled to his left, taking a grip on the arm holding the bat as it came flying past, attempting to wrestle it out of the man’s hands. Before he had a chance of doing so he was grabbed from behind.

The short hand to hand combat training he had received was still somewhere in the back of his head and he stomped down on the foot of the person grabbing him, earning a satisfactory grunt in return. The grip did not loosen however and for a second he saw his life flash past as the cricket bat seemed poised and aimed at his head. He struggled with renewed power, but to no use.

And suddenly he was free; he leaped forward, aiming low, striking the cricket man to the ground with a shoulder in his abdomen. As he got up he saw Sherlock doing the same from where he had tackled the one holding him, a giant of a man.

“Run John, run,” He didn’t protest, two more black clad men were approaching and he knew when he was outnumbered.


	12. Go with the flow

_19 days 14 hours and 13 minutes_

John ran faster than he could remember having run before. Legs pumping madly below him, muscles strained to the breaking point, heart pounding so loud in his ears that he wasn’t sure he heard steps behind them anymore. Before him Sherlock ran, smooth and unhindered, long limbs flowing over the cobbled streets, constantly changing direction. John had no idea how he did it, he seemed to know every street, every intersection, and every passageway in London. John dared a quick glance over his shoulder only to realize that they were still chased.

Behind them ran the men clad in dark, any other features was lost in the speed and the sparse lightning. It was as if they shifted to and fro existence as they reached and moved on from the pools of light cast by the yellow street lights.

Somewhere John found an energy reserve, something his body had been saving for matters of life and death, which surely this was. The distance to Sherlock shrunk as he forced his body onwards, they were running shoulder to shoulder now, he looked over at Sherlock who was smiling a wild, wicked smile as he ran and he realized a similarly mad smile was plastered on his own face.

They ran on, bodies in total sync, minds blank except for the thrill of the moment, both revelling in the adrenalin; the wet streets disappearing behind them as they ran. They where invincible and they could do this forever and ever.

John dared another look behind him and realized they were getting away when Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him through some winding narrow alleys, dark two storied brick buildings surrounding them on all sides. Finally he pulled him in behind a dumpster, the corner was small and the light was out clouding them in darkness. The moment they stopped, John realized he was exhausted, his legs almost wouldn’t keep him up, felling like jelly and he was desperately pulling air into his burning lungs. Sherlock motioned at him to be quiet.

For once Sherlock looked as tired as him, a flush on his otherwise white cheeks and he was holding on to John’s arm in a mutual attempt at staying upright. John leaned back and let the rough brick wall take his weight, running a hand through his hair as he did. He closed his eyes as he tried to quiet his breathing.

A sudden noise in the ally they had come from forced his eyes open as a new dosage of adrenalin was pumped into his system. Sherlock flattened himself against John, making them both as small as possible; his head was turned so that he could see in the small crack between the dumpster and the wall.

John willed himself into becoming part of the wall, disappearing into the bricks and the fear from earlier, forgotten in the rush, came crushing back. His breathing seemed thunderous enough to overpower a jet engine. He closed his eyes again and tried a calming technique his therapist had shown him. Slowly breathe in and slowly out again through your nose, focus on your breathing. Slowly in and then out.

He opened his eyes as he had his breathing under control, muscles relaxing slightly. He then became acutely aware of Sherlock’s body pressed up against his. He was looking at the side of the pale curve of Sherlock’s neck, whose hands were up on the brick wall on each side of John’s head. Sherlock’s body pushed flush against his, not an inch of air between them. He could feel his friend’s heart beat against his, chest pressing against his every time any of them breathed in. His head started to spin as the warmth from Sherlock’s body slowly seeped through his clothing.

The memories of a similar situation weeks ago, of Sherlock’s body pressed against his, mouth meeting his came back, flooding his mind in vivid flashes.

John frantically forced his fists to close, fingernails digging little half-moons of pain into his palms as he tried to fight what his body was doing to him. His heart was beating frantically in a mixture of dread and excitement as his starved body drowned in Sherlock’s.

He stood there on the verge of panic as his former resolve melted into nothingness. He longed to reach out and pull Sherlock against him, to feel his lips on his. Put his nose in the crock of his neck and breath in. There was no way he could escape this, why had he tried to fool himself? He was lost in something he could never have.

As he realized that he was fighting a losing battle Sherlock straightened up.

“It seems they have moved on, we are safe for the moment,” John slapped back into reality, him and Sherlock hiding in a tiny alley, trying for cover from the people chasing them. People that had it in for him personally and he snapped.

It was too much. Being in the army, there you were someone among many, always in danger just because you were a part of something. Maybe you had no control over what was happening but you tried to survive and do your best and hoped others knew what they were doing. Here someone was after him personally and Sherlock was warm and beautiful and unaware of what the contact was doing to him. It was basic military tactics; don’t fight a war on two fronts at the same time.

He pushed Sherlock away, much more forcefully than he should have to.

“Move.”

“What is it, are you hurt,” Sherlock looked at him, concern shoving on his face but how could John explain what was ailing him.

“Just move, move Sherlock,” and Sherlock did move away. He took several steps backwards as he looked at John as if expecting him to suddenly grow horns. John couldn’t handle it, all the dread and despair suddenly bubbled up and he just panicked.

“Just get away from me, get away,” His voice was high pitched at the end as he pushed himself off the wall and walked away. He had to get away or he had no idea what would happen. He walked, or practically ran out of the ally, hands showed deep down into his pockets, his shoulders tense and pulled up under his ears. He had to get somewhere, anywhere away from Sherlock and the crazy things he was doing to him.

He walked in blind, the dark city spinning around him, streetlights and cars illuminating his way.


	13. God takes care of drunks

_19 days 19 hours and 19 minutes_

John stared into the bottom of his pint glass; it was empty. He wondered dimly how many he had finished but quickly abandoned that thought and waved at the bartender for another. If he could still think, he wasn’t drunk enough. He needed, for just one night, to forget about everything, loose himself in the fog of the psychoactive drug.

The pub was half empty, John and a couple of locals occupying most of the chairs around the bar. A group of teenagers talking loudly at one of the few larger tables in the back. The place was no more than a walk-in bar really, one of those pubs that had bought its entire interior from a catalogue. From the fake old bar, to the fake old beams in the ceiling, and fake old bronze decorations on the fake old wallpaper. It was exactly the type of pub he hated and normally would never set his foot in. Even the beer was some tasteless generic brand. It seemed appropriate tonight.

“You sure you want another one mate?” The landlord asked, looking suspiciously at John’s slumped figure and creased sweater.

“Yeah, I’m fine, not had that many even,” John tried a fake smile to go with the pub and straightened his back but apparently the fact that he could answer was enough as the landlord just nodded and pulled up a new pint pushing it over. He grabbed it with both hands and sank half of it in one go, and nearly fell off his chair. He saved himself in the last moment by grabbing hold of the bar counter, fingers sticking on half dried ale. His head felt full of wool and for some reason his limbs wouldn’t do what he told them.

The landlord, who must have finally realised that he was too drunk for his own good, came over.

“You want to pay now?” He nodded at John. “I think you should call it a night. Right mate? I will let you finished that though,” He added when John grabbed his beer glass tight. John nodded fussily and immediately regretted it as the world started to swim in front of his eyes.

The landlord dropped the bill in front of him and went over to the table with the rowdy teenagers. John had to try three times before he managed to get his wallet out of his pocket; he had to lean his elbow on the counter to be able to fish it out of his trousers without falling off the barstool. The small triumph at his success was soon replaced with befuddlement as he opened the wallet and realized that it was empty. Not even a single pound. He fiddled with the small compartments trying to find his credit card until he remember that the manager in the pub before this had cut it up in front of him.

“Are you going to pay or am I going to ring the bobby?” The landlord leaned over the counter and threw a towel over his shoulder and scratching the salt-and-pepper stubble on his coarse chin, He stared pointedly at John’s empty wallet.

“No, no lemme, I’m just gonna,” John patted his pockets trying to find a lose note, anything.

“Mate, you better pay your due, or else,” He shook his head is if to say he was disappointed, a look hard as steel in his sunken eyes but John never got to hear what that else would have been.

“Here allow me,” John looked up, Sherlock was standing next to him VISA card in his gloved hands outstretched between his index and middle finger towards the landlord, who shrugged and took it, “Whatever you say mate, it’s your headache.”

“Sherlock, ‘ts ok, I got it, I got it you don’ have to,” John could feel shame rise in him as he realized that he really had no choice.

“John, good to see you in one piece,” Sherlock looked as calm and perfect as he always did, but then John’s perception was slightly flawed at the moment.

“Cudda just phoned,” John replied, his head feeling as if it weighted a ton, rubbing a hand over his eyes trying to clear his head.

Sherlock signed his recipe and pocketed his card, “Thank you”, he said politely to the landlord who just grunted.

“You turned your phone off John.”

“Oh righty, fo’got, sorry.”

“I found you. Shall we get you home?” John didn’t answer, he just slid down his barstool and had to grab Sherlock’s arm to stop himself from keeling over, “Sureletsgo.”,

He turned to go and thought he heard the landlord snort and whisper, “Drunk in a pub when he could be home with that,” under his breath but John just took aim at Sherlock’s back and left.

Outside Sherlock hailed a cab; John got in the back and after three attempts gave up trying to put his seatbelt on. Instead he focused on the bright light coming and going from the cars meeting theirs, leaning his forehead on the cool car window.

“221b Baker street please,” said Sherlock to the cabby.

-oOo-

Sherlock had his arm around John’s waist, and his other hand holding John’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, trying to half carry half drag his friend up the stairs. After traversing the staircase and subsequently managing to get John to shed at least his shoes and jacket he dropped him on the bed.

“You are so stupid Sherlock, why are you so stupid.”

“I’m sorry?”

John was lying on his bed, mumbling drunkenly and Sherlock didn’t know how to answer that. After all he was considered one of the most intelligent persons in London, if not in the entire United Kingdom.

“Thick, you are thick as, as something very thick...” the rest of John’s rambling was drowned out as he passed out into oblivion, snoring lightly.

Sherlock stood there for a minute, considering his sleeping friend. John looked more peaceful in his sleep than he had in a long while.

It was strange in a way, how protective he felt about the doctor. Normally people in Sherlock’s presence didn’t last long; they burned out fast in his company leaving him behind as they moved on. People tried to keep up with him and when they couldn’t they left. It was just safer to not get involved with people in Sherlock’s experience. Not John though, John had this steady, calm force about him and it whispered to you that he would always be there, never leave you.

He supposed that maybe this was the reason he felt so protective. John was his after all, this murderer, this man threatening John, it was personal.

In his own way Sherlock was grateful to John, he felt that he owed him and not only for saving his life over and over. In his experience people didn’t do good things for you without wanting something back. John had shown him a glimpse of something else. This was the thing at risk, Sherlock thought; he dared not risk this, not for anything. He broke people, he would not break John. He shook himself, quickly stepping backwards and closing the door, blocking his view of the sleeping man.

He left John and ran two steps at a time down into the sitting room. He was missing something in the case; there was something wrong and not only John’s behaviour.

What were the facts he thought, walking aimlessly around the dark sitting room, not bothering with the lights, picking things up and putting them down in new random places.

There was the killer, a man, connected to this religious organization. He assumed the dark clad men from earlier had been from the organization, were they connected to the murderer or not? It seemed to be the work of a lone perpetrator, but at this point Sherlock left nothing out.

Why were the killings so different. The first one, so cold. The lack of blood and the dumping in the river in stark contrast to the other two, all blood everywhere, speaking of anger and haste. Certainly, a razor or some other sharp blade had been used in all murders, a scalpel maybe? The cuts had all had that surgical precision so it had to be the same man. Finally, why did John seem absolutely clueless, surely an enemy like that you would remember?

Four nicotine patches later Sherlock was still no closer to a solution. He would have to do this the hard way. He sprung up from his resting place on the sofa, grabbed his coat and made for the laboratory at Scotland Yard. He would go over every piece of evidence, every detail, the bodies and the few leads they had. Everything until something told him what was going on.


	14. Time and tide wait for none

_20 days 4 hours and 53 minutes (Friday, 7 a.m.)_

“Anderson told me you where here,” said Lestrade addressing Sherlock who was standing in the laboratory, coat thrown over a chair and shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a harried expression on his face.

“You can see me so you know I am here,” Sherlock didn’t even look over at Lestrade standing in the doorway but instead fixed his eyes on the mess he had made of the back wall. With a blue whiteboard pen he had scribbled all over the crisp, white paint. Arrows, notes, numbers, and names, everything he could think of connected to the case was there in a jumbled mess more resembling a child’s drawing of a whirlwind than anything a sane man could have produced.

“You know this is a sealed environment, you can’t do that. It could contaminate evidence samples.”

“There is nothing in the samples of interest anyway,” Sherlock cast an irritated look over his shoulder at Lestrade, why was he bothering him with these inconsequential comments.

“There are other cases you know,” Lestrade walked over to Sherlock and pulled the pen from him as he attempted to draw another arrow in the schemata, “When was the last time you slept anyway?”

“I don’t sleep much during cases and you know it, too much to do, too many puzzles to solve. Now will you stop bothering me,” He snatched the pen back and drew an arrow and then took a step back to look at the picture but clearly didn’t like what he saw. He threw the pen at Lestrade, “No, no, no this is not it.”

“Yeah well we all get a bit irrational from lack of sleep,” Lestrade tried to rub away the blue spot that was now marring his white shirt where the pen had hit. “Take me, I have to leave for work an hour earlier than normal now that London Bridge is closed for renovations, can you believe they will have it closed until Christmas. I mean the bridge was built 1750 you would think it can hold up a bit longer.”

Sherlock froze and spun around towards Lestrade, gripping his shoulders with both hands, almost shaking him, “The bridge is what?”

“... closed for renovations, it has been so for the last week, how can you not know that? It is all over the news and the traffic is unbearable because of it,” Lestrade replied.

“What day did it close?” The intensity almost scared him, when Sherlock got like this, so wrapped up in a case, the usual polish he deigned to use disappeared and you were left with a being of pure energy.

“It has been closed since the day before we found the first body actually, 6 days ago; it was supposed to have started on Christmas when people were off from work and gone on through the holidays but something made them push the date forward.”

Sherlock stood absolutely still and it was like watching atoms splitting, the fusion energy to intense to bear. For a second he stood absolutely still and then he got his phone out and stared walking back and forth in front of Lestrade, all the time mumbling incoherently.

“6 days, take the tide at that point, it was a new moon moving at... The distance is 3,1415 miles and the river flows at a speed of... Christmas is on the 25...” his fingers flew over the screen, Lestrade just leaned back and waited.

“That’s it, that is finally it,” Sherlock put his phone down, and made for the door. Lestrade took hold of his arm as he tried to run past, “Would you mind actually telling the police before you run of with the ground breaking evidence which will let us all save our favourite doctor?”

“You see, the label, the silly Christmas one. The body, it was supposed to be found on Christmas, when the bridge was closed and the workers arrived. Now it was dislodged from wherever it was hidden, it was a mistake that we found it earlier. We found the first body and that hurried the killer, he had to put his plan into action before he had everything he needed, which was why the other killings looked too rushed.”

“What do you mean that the body was not supposed to be found?”

“I don’t have time for this, the killer is a medical man of some sort, possibly an army doctor, now retired from service, and he might have gone to school with John or served with him. He lives in the delusion that John and several others let him down, so search old service records of any reported conflicts and most important contact the patrol you have outside our place. Tell them not to take their eyes of John.” Lestrade uttered some well chosen oats as Sherlock escaped his hold and promptly ran away.

-oOo-

Sherlock was sitting in the back of a cab, fingers drumming restlessly on his knee, one hand closed into a tight fist resting under his chin. So stupid, John had been right, he was thick. How had he not seen this before, it was so obvious and now his carelessness would get John killed.


	15. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me

_20 days 5 hours and 13 minutes_

John closed the door behind him and started walking towards his bus stop. His head hurt like never before and the day so far was reminding him why he never really drank much. His mouth tasted like the bottom of an ashtray mixed with vinegar that had gone sour and the light hurt his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure but he thought he might still be a bit drunk because that horrible, life wrenching feeling of angst which normally accompanied his hangovers had yet to appear. It would come though; a feeling of impending doom made him sure of it.

He squinted at the sun which seemed to get brighter by the minute. Focusing on the pounding of his head as it beat in sync with his steps, making it sound like someone was following close behind. He was glad his legs knew the way, all he had to do was follow. As he approached his bus shelter a black Mercedes with tinted windows came fast towards him, tires screaming as it stopped and from one second to the next everything went black.

John reached for his eyes only to be stopped by the feeling of fabric, he clawed at the bag pulled over his head. A strong grip held him and his hands were pulled roughly onto his back, something hard and sharp holding them there. Someone put a hand on his head and he was forced into a small compartment smelling of oil and metal. The boot of a car he realised as the boot cover slammed closed above him, cutting of the noise of the street.

John tried to shout and move but his hands were stuck behind his back, a warm, wet feeling on his palms as the handcuffs tore and broke his skin when he struggled. Worst of all, he could not see. They couldn’t do this, he thought mind reeling, you can’t abduct people in broad daylight in the middle of London. Someone must have seen them, anyone.

He tried to keep calm but that feeling of impending doom, a black bottomless pit of despair that he had waited for all morning finally descended upon him. His breathing was loud and harsh in his ears as the car swerved through the streets.

-oOo-

_20 days 5 hours and 33 minutes_

“There is no answer from the patrol outside your place; I have sent all the cars in the vicinity there but likely you will get there first,” D.I. Lestrade paused, “Please don’t do anything stupid Sherlock, wait for backup.”

Sherlock didn’t even deign that with an answer and just hung up the phone as the car approached the last corner intersecting Baker Street. He was almost there. He was out of the cab before it had stopped properly throwing a fistful of money to the cabby not even bothering to count them and ran towards the flat shoving the mailman out of the way as he came up to the door.

Inside the flat it was empty. He was too late. He had tried John’s phone on the way, but no one had picked up.

As he ran back outside, feeling like a hole was burning in his chest, the sound from the sirens on at least three separate police vehicles reverberated from building to building. The cacophony filled his head preventing him from thinking, he shouted at the police officers to be quiet. They were too late anyway, too late to protect John. He spun round and round on his heels, eyes scanning every direction, arms outspread, working through every detail.

At the third turn he had John’s route figured out. There had been no sign of struggle in the flat, John’s jacket was gone. This meant he had exited the flat on his own accord. He would have been on the way to the clinic. How? How did John get to the clinic? Bloody hell, this was why you should bother with the trivial details.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head up towards the sky as he let images of John flood him; he recapped, re-winded, examined, and filed away each and every one.

_“Here use mine,” John said reaching out his hand as he lent Sherlock his mobile phone. The strip lightning in St Barts was casting strange reflections on the man who was to become his roommate._

_It was sunny outside; Sherlock was waiting on a text from Lestrade on the last details on a case. John smiled at his impatience and told him why tea grown on Sri Lanka was his favourite as he poured them a cup each._

_Sherlock was bored, lying on the sofa in exasperation, his entire being crawling with lack of stimuli. He was on the verge of doing something utterly self destructive when John asked him how the pyramids had been built. He had seen a documentary that argued for a new theory about internal building tracks for getting the heavy centre stones in place. Sherlock spent the night doing the deductions but could have sworn John wasn’t even interested when he presented the answer the day after, he had just smiled._

_John pouring HP sauce over a steak and kidney pie, strong hands slapping the bottle as he listened to Sherlock explaining why condiments in general had the wrong viscosity. John had smiled and Sherlock had to look away to keep from getting dazzled, forgetting everything about sauces and spices._

_John coming home from the clinic, Sherlock telling him he is late. He has been waiting on the sofa for hours for John’s company, although he would never tell him that. John shakes his head at him and tells him his bus was late._

Bus, off course! The first Mets officer hadn’t even had time to get out of her police vehicle and Sherlock was already running. As he ran his mind worked in highest gear, trying every possibility and rejecting the answers as quick.

The bus stop was empty, not that he had expected anything else. Scanning the street a flicker of a curtain on the opposite side caught his attention, just what he was looking for.

He crossed the street rummaging in the inner pocket of his coat, earning an angry honk as a car had to brake hard to stop from running him over. Sherlock didn’t even notice, he had only one word running circles in his head; John.

As he knocked on the door there was no answer, he knocked again, this time harder. He could hear shuffling inside. He banged again and bent down to shout into the letter opening, “It is the police, open up,” The shuffling steps approached the door and he could hear a security chain slide out of its bracket.

A small, dry little man opened the door, all corduroys and woollen sweater. Sherlock showed one of Lestrade’s stolen badges in his face.

“I need to ask some questions sir.”

“Come in, come in officer,” The man invited him inside, closing the door behind him, Sherlock walked immediately into the kitchen, opening the flowery curtains; a perfect view of the bus stop. On the kitchen table was a notebook and a pair of binoculars.

“I’ve got no tea if that’s what you want,” The man mumbled grumpily at Sherlock’s back as he took his seat by the table.

“I need you to tell me if you saw anything suspicious at around 8.15 this morning,” replied Sherlock.

The man looked around nervously, pushing the binoculars to the side, “Well if it is that Mrs Evans over at number 11 who has phoned you again you can tell her that...” He stopped when Sherlock closed the few steps between them, leaning both hands on the table, knuckles white, towering over him and saying each word heavy with emphasis, “I do not care about you or any woman, I am looking for a man, dark blond hair, medium height walking to the bus stop at 8.15 this morning.”

The old man took in the edge in Sherlock’s voice and seemed to decide that cooperating with the police was in his own best interest. He reached for his notebook and turned it back one page.

“Well it depends on what you mean by suspicious,” He hurriedly continued in a voice straining to be ingratiating, “At 8.16 there was this man who got pushed into the boot of a car.”

“And you did not report this to this to the police?” The look in Sherlock’s eyes could have started forest fires in India during the monsoon period.

The man cringed, “Well people do all kinds of things nowadays, it could have been one of those bachelor things you hear about,” he said, growing quieter by the word. Sherlock didn’t condescend himself to answer.

“It was a black Mercedes. I got the registration number if that helps?” The man cringed as he tried his best to please the murderous looking police officer standing in his kitchen.

-oOo-

If he had thought his head hurt before it was nothing compared to the steady thundering headache he was sporting now. His mouth and throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow anymore and the sack over his head made his entire face itch from the rough canvas. His hands were tied to his back and he had stopped feeling his fingers long ago although the pain in his arms from the strain was now competing with his head.

He focused on these feelings because they told him he was alive. It was one of those habits he had picked up in the war; if you could feel pain you knew you were still alive. There are few things a soldier fear more than that moment before death when the central nerve system shuts down from overload and the pain goes away; that is when you know you are going to die.

So he focused on the burning muscle pain in his arms, the throbbing of his head, the parched feeling in his mouth, the shoulder that was starting to go numb from lying still on the cold floor for too long. That way fear couldn’t take over.


	16. What goes up must come down

_20 days 12 hours and a quarter_

Sherlock kept a steady grip on the gun he had badgered Lestrade into “loaning” him. It was heavier than it looked and the steel felt ice cold in his grip. Behind him three police officers were standing in line and like him waiting for a signal which would tell them it was time to charge the apartment building in front of them.

Sherlock was boiling over, one feeling replacing the next so fast he had no time to identify and label them. For once Lestrade had not listened to him when he had wanted to go after John himself, he had even threatened to have him locked up for an unforeseeable future and Donovan had smiled from ear to ear in anticipation. There had been no choice but to agree to bring backup and follow Lestrade’s orders, however much it galled him.

They were standing on a street, closed for traffic at the moment, overlooking the building next to the one in front of them as Lestrade’s men emptied it of its occupants; he was taking no chances he had explained. The building which they had traced the black Mercedes to, by using the city’s CCTV net was empty. It was being renovated and all the tenants had been relocated.

Sherlock had been steadily observing the building for the last 10 minutes but there was nothing wrong with it, nothing that told him John was inside, safe and unharmed. Still, he couldn’t help continue staring, eyes trying to penetrate the concrete and steel searching for signs of life, of hope.

If Lestrade didn’t give the order soon Sherlock thought vaguely that he would go insane, he would cross that fine line between genius and madman once and for all. At that precise moment a radio on the police behind him crackled into life and out over the static came Lestrade’s steady voice, “Team Doyle, the garage has been cleaned you go on five, Stand by.”

Finally! Sherlock clicked the safety off the gun and mentally counted to five and then sprang into action. He thought he heard someone swear behind him but he was sure the cretins would follow him anyway, he might have been ordered to bring backup but they had been ordered to keep him safe.

As he stopped just inside the doors a, “Team Doyle is in the nest, repeating team Doyle is in the nest,” behind him confirmed that he had been correct.

He looked around, letting his eyes sweep over the open space, where would they have taken John? The foyer was empty except for some builder’s tools spread out on the dirty floor and a pile of old toilet bowls stacked against the wall. The elevator was out since power had been cut to the building but the staircase led both up and down; illuminated by an eerie green light from the emergency exit signs. Up or down? Sherlock thought. Up he decided and moved to the stairs.

“Tessa, tell the others to search downwards,” Tessa, the police officer closest to him nodded and spoke into the microphone at her shoulder.

“Team Conan come in.”

“Team Conan here.”

“We are moving up, Arthur says to move down, over and out.”

“Acknowledged, over and out.”

The team lead by Lestrade wouldn’t find anything, he was sure of it. But on the other hand it could not hurt to cover all bases so to speak. It was not petty revenge for having had to wait for backup or the ridiculous codenames.

Sherlock quickly passed both the second and third floor, continuing up the stair in a flying pace. The floor was covered in construction dust smudged by footsteps, the grit scraped as they walked over it. Which floor? His thoughts were racing, where would they keep John? He rerolled the schematics of the place in his head; the place had six floors. He had counted seven on the outside he realised. They must be rebuilding the attic. Of course the attic, the seventh floor, seven which is a sacred number in many religions.

As he reached floor number six the staircase ended. Sherlock stopped; according to the plans he had seen there should be a door here leading to the final stairs. In front of him was nothing, a blank wall, white painted and plain. Sherlock would not despair, would not give up. He would find John, there were no other options. Sherlock could be relentless, it was one of the reasons why he was so good at what he did.

“Where is the damn door,” he kicked the wall where the door should have be, it owed him. His entourage made no attempt at answering. As his foot came back there was a slight smudge on the wall, a small indentation in the paint. So it wasn’t properly dried, but not fresh enough to smell. Sherlock pressed his finger against the mark he had made, feeling the paintwork. The builders must have bricked up this entrance. But they wouldn’t do that without first making a new one. The elevator machinery was up there, if it broke someone would need to get up there and repair it.

He went over the buildings layout again, forever stored away in his head and ah, he thought, that was it.

Without warning he ran downstairs, the startled officers doing their best to keep up, their boots stomping behind him. He took a sharp left and followed a corridor until it ended in a t-intersection where he turned left again. And there at the end of the hall was a door which looked remarkably new, a sheet of plastic still covering the laminated wood.

Sherlock was up the stairs in seconds, scanning the room at the top, it was full of debris from the renovations and sun beams from the ceiling window broke in the dust particles floating in the air. The officers spread out all around him like a fan in every possible direction. Uniform clad shadows walking slightly hunched, the guns in their hands giving them an otherworldly appearance, such a rarity for an English police officer. Tessa stayed dutifully at his side as he himself took his spoke in the half-wheel shaped search pattern.

“Sir, over here,” Came a shout to the left and Sherlock practically toppled Tessa out of the way in his haste. He rounded a wooden crate and behind it another officer was removing a black hood from someone’s face. John’s face Sherlock corrected himself. At the sight of his friend Sherlock felt like he could breathe for the first time in days. Like a metal tourniquet had been fit over his chest and was now finally removed.

John had blood in his hair and a crust of dried red covered half his face, the rest of his hair hung in limp strands almost hiding his eyes which looked dead tired.

In a fraction of a second Sherlock was over beside him, untying his hands asking how he was, his voice not at all unsteady, a hand clasping John’s shoulder.

John opened his mouth, lips looking dry and cracked, but nothing came out sending icy shivers down Sherlock’s spine, what had they done to him?

John coughed and tried again, “Water,” he whispered so low Sherlock almost couldn’t make it out. One of the police officers offered a small bottle and John drowned it all, his hand shaking as he did so making some of the water run in shiny streams down his chin.

“Thank you,” He replied, voice hoarse but gaining.

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah I think so,” John replied allowing Sherlock to help him up, “Can hardly move my arms though, no blood in them,” Sherlock started to gently massage John’s arms, running his hands up and down working the blood back in while John grimaced at the pain as knitted muscles started to loosen up and blood returned, bringing it’s friend oxygen with it.

Lestrade was suddenly there, looking flushed and out of breath, he must have run up all the stairs from the basement.

“John, how are you?”

“I’ve been better, but I’ll live,” He paused, putting a hand up to the feel the blood on his head, “Thanks you, all of you.”

“You should thank Sherlock,” Lestrade said and nodded towards him, still gently rubbing his hands up and down John’s arm.

“What happened to your head?” Sherlock said mostly to stop any possible praise aimed in his general direction. He spoke indirectly not turning his face, keeping his gaze on his own hands as they moved.

“Oh, someone hit me over the head when I tried to escape,” He smiled bitterly, “It didn’t go so well as you might have noticed,” John tried to flex his arms, pain clear in new lines forming on his face. Sherlock let his hands drop away from him, feeling weirdly forlorn as he lost physical contact with his friend; like he needed to touch him to be sure he was there.

“Did he hurt you otherwise?” Lestrade asked.

“No. And there was more than one as well. At least three, the two that grabbed me and someone driving the car,” John looked at Sherlock, still standing too close but none of them made any attempt at moving, he was staring absently into the wall. Now that he knew that John was safe it felt like he could think again and his mind was rushing.

“I don’t think it was our killer who took you.”

“Sherlock this time you have gone too far,” Lestrade started, “The threats and now this, it seems clear that they are connected.”

“Connected yes. Our killer, I think not.”

“What do you mean?” John said feeling miserable.

“I do not know yet, but I presume to have an answer soon enough.”


	17. Doctors make the worst patients

_20 days 16 hours and 9 minutes_

John was lying on the sofa, limbs all stretched out and a bag of ice pressed to the lump on his forehead. Sherlock stood aimlessly in the middle of the room, feeling like he should do something but not sure what.

“I could kill for a cup of tea,” John said, voice still a bit rough at the edges and Sherlock leaped at the opportunity to be of use. He made a pot, after he managed to find the tea bags and some milk. John put everything in the strangest places. It would make sense to just keep bags, cups, pot and milk in one place, that way it would be more efficient. Now he had to go through all the cabinets to assemble the ingredients.

Back in the sitting room, John had not moved but he looked like he was in less pain, the lines on his face starting to smooth out, the pills the medical staff had given him to take against the pain must have kicked in. Sherlock bent to put the cups down on the table, “Tea,” he said, carefully studying John from under dark curls falling across his forehead.

When John made no move he sat himself carefully down on the edge of the sofa, long legs folded under him, “John?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” He inched over a bit so Sherlock had more room and opened his eyes.

“It feels better actually. How do I look,” He smiled broadly, showing all his teeth, and removed the half melted ice bag, putting it on the floor. The lump was a nasty purple and red but it looked like the swelling had stopped.

“Like you have been hit over the head with a small blunt instrument, probably a police baton, by someone either slightly taller that you or hovering above you,” Sherlock answered and said nothing about tousled hair and glittering eyes which made a familiar warmth spread in his stomach. In response John laughed, one of those laughs which involves the whole body and was absolutely contagious to everyone around. Sherlock smiled, glad John was here and not tied up in a dark room somewhere, or worse.

“You do have a way of making me feel better at least,” John said laugh subsiding.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock replied, looking away as he reached for a cup of tea, aiming to give it to John. John stopped him, a tight, warm grip on wrist, fingers looping round. When Sherlock tried to reach for the cup, John didn’t let go but held it tight as he tried to pull away. His grip was firm, sending tingles up Sherlock’s arm.

“It’s ok Sherlock, I’m ok.”

“No,” he said calmly, refusing to look at John. How could he not see that this was his fault, he should have seen this coming. If he had been better, faster, stronger then John would not have been taken in the first place. He had let his feelings cloud his perception.

“It is not ok John, I failed. It will not happen again,” That had been too much he thought as John looked at him strangely. He needed to keep calm, for them both.

He was not prepared for what happened next, he was upset over his miscalculation and not thinking or he would have stopped it. John pulled him in with the tight grip he still had on his hand. Sherlock fell forward over him as John’s other hand came up behind his neck pulling his mouth to his. Their lips met as John kissed him; it was dry and still, lips pressed against lips.

Something hot and roaring exploded into life in Sherlock’s belly. He could feel his body betraying him and his lips opened as on their own accord, tongue tentatively flickering and as it met John’s all air left his lungs and Sherlock could not have broken it for the life of him.

The kiss was careful at start, lips hardly touching and just the tips of their tongues meeting each other. Sherlock could feel John’s warm breath against his and he carefully moved closer, lips fully closing over John’s. John met him, step by step deepening the kiss, tongue reaching further; licking deep inside Sherlock’s mouth.

It felt oh so good, like this was how it was supposed to be. His hands stroking John’s hair as their mouths explored each other. John’s lips were hard and dry and he tasted like iron or blood. Sherlock let his hands move over his chest, feeling his body through the shirt; heat radiating through the fabric. John had his eyes closed and Sherlock kissed his lips, the line of his jaw, and trailed kisses down his neck hearing John’s breathing hasten. It was absolutely intoxicating.

He pulled at John’s shirt pushing his hand under, feeling the scars and muscles as John’s body bucked under his touch. He pressed the palm of his hand flat against John’s stomach, feeling the heat between his fingers. Sherlock wanted more, a need deep in his bones. He returned to John’s mouth exploring it deeply as his hands stroked everywhere they could get, he wanted to know every inch of him; feeling gently along ribs and heated skin.

He was hard in his trousers, dark grey wool stretched and not enough pressure. He edged around until he was lying on top of John on the too short sofa, their bodies pressed flushed against each other.

Sherlock moved his hips against John’s, bucking into the man under him. John’s eyes opened and he moved back, grinding his hips back as they both frantically touched. John’s eyes were glassed over and Sherlock could see himself in the shiny surface, the pupils dilated. Sherlock froze, John was pumped full of pain killers, which ones? He didn’t know, hadn’t paid attention to the nurses handing the white pills over.

What was he doing to John? Did his friend even know what he was doing? Was he in his right mind?. Oh god what was he doing.

Sherlock reeled back. Everyone were right, all of them, he was a horrible person. John, the last one he wanted to hurt. John, still in shock and full of chemicals and here he was taking advantage of him, quite possibly ruining the best thing in his life while he was at it.

John looked at him in confusion, “Sherlock?” He asked stretching a hand out towards him, and Sherlock fled.

-oOo-

Later that night he came back, John was sleeping where Sherlock had left him, one arm hanging limp over the edge of the sofa. Sherlock stood a while looking down at him, moonlight from the window smoothing out all the edges and making John look impossibly young and innocent; this had to end. If he could just solve the case they could go back to how things had been before and forget all this.

John’s calm presence had become something he could count on; a friend –his friend. He would not let other feelings take over, he would not scare John away because he needed him. It itched to have to admit that he, Sherlock Holmes, would need someone when he had spent so long pretending the opposite; but he did need him. He was through pretending otherwise. He would protect John; keep him safe. Even from himself.

Sherlock rubbed his face and pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes until all he could see was stars. He supposed, logically, that somewhere along the line friendship had turned into love. The dividing line seemed a treacherous one.

Maybe it was just the difficulty of separating close friendship from love since he has had so little of either. All he knew was that people in general left if he became too close; in some way or another he ruined them. He was not stupid after all; he tended to not make the same mistake more than once.

Sherlock carefully lifted his coat of the hat rack so as not to disturb John and exited the flat. He avoided the police stationed in the hallway and made his way outside. He had to get away, this place that used to be his haven; his calm place now seemed full of tension and unrest which he himself had created. It was time for some desperate action on his part.


	18. Desperate times call for desperate measures

_21 days and 39 minutes_

Sherlock carefully pushed open the window with his glove clad hand. It was dark inside and seemed empty. But you could never be too careful. He quickly glanced around him, but it was in the middle of the night and not a soul was about, in one swift, graceful motion he was inside, carefully sliding the window shut behind him.

The room was a small office type kitchenette, a kettle and a microwave on a counter. A note to clean up after yourself, and not much else. Keeping his gloves on to avoid fingerprints, he moved with caution to the door, laying one ear to the cool wood listening before opening it. It was dead quiet.

Outside was a high-ceilinged corridor with a worn marble floor. In the end a door led out to the street, dim light shining through the frosted glass from the city outside. Moving up the corridor he examined the other doors, four of them in total, one leading to a bathroom. Of the other three one had a well worn look, small chips in the paint around the handle, indicating that it was used regularly.

Sherlock approached the door and turned the handle carefully, it was open. He slid inside and closed the door behind him; it glided shut almost soundlessly on well oiled hinges.

He stood in a library of the old kind, oak panels darkened by age on the walls, a cluster of leather back chairs in front of a fireplace and a thick oriental rug on the floor. Tall floor to ceiling bookcases stacked with leather bound books filled most of the walls. Across the room a massive teak desk stood alone, reigning over the room. A halo of grey light was spilling over the surface from a large window overlooking an empty courtyard. A high back chair, turned the other way accompanied it.

There was a smell in the air, Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he tried to place the fragrance. Magnolia he thought. A lady’s perfume he realised a second later. As he approached the desk; the chair swirled around revealing a familiar dark haired woman.

“Mr Holmes, how good of you to join us,” She smiled and nodded like he was a long expected quest arriving from the front door in the middle of the day.

“Won’t you please sit down,” She pointed towards a visitor’s chair in front of the desk. It was a good three inches lower than hers. Hardly a coincidence Sherlock thought as he took in the scene, a woman in need of confirming her position.

Sherlock walked up to the chair, flipped his coat tails back and sat down. The perfect, calm English gentleman on the outside.

“I don’t think we have been properly introduced?” He replied as he leaned back in the chair.

“You can call me Sara if that pleases you,” She smiled towards him, a perfect row of even, white teeth showing between her red lips. In no way did the smile reach her eyes which stayed fixed, looking, gauging him.

“Well then Sara, you can call me Sherlock.”

Sara clapped her hands once and a soft light filled the room. She opened a drawer and brought forth a crystal bottle and two glasses, she poured them each two fingers of what looked like cognac, “Here Mr Holmes,” She sipped her own and leaned back in her chair, eyes inspecting him over the brim of her glass, well manicured fingers tapping on the glass. Sherlock made no attempt to reach for his own drink.

If she noticed at least she didn’t say or let anything show on her face.

“I thought it was time you and I had a little talk, we have been observing your...” She paused as if she was searching for words, “...activities.”

“That makes two of us,” Sherlock said meeting her gaze evenly, her grey eyes were steady as ice and he decided that she was most likely older than she looked.

She ignored his comment, “Let us get down to business then Mr Holmes shall we, you are a busy man I understand.” She paused as if to give him room to speak, Sherlock stayed quiet.

“The man you are hunting is also hunted by us. So we offer a trade of sorts,” She placed a briefcase on the desk and opened it. She removed a grainy photograph and pushed it over to Sherlock.

“It seems we are on the same side here Mr Holmes and as they say: the enemy of my enemy...” She left the rest of the proverb hanging in the air. Sherlock didn’t answer but reached for his glass, he needed time to consider, this was in a way an unexpected turn of events.

Sherlock picked up the photo; on it was a man in his forties, short hair and a nose which clearly had been broken at one point. Sherlock was hit with a brief flash of a memory, the same man, a sneer on his face which Sherlock had not registered at the time. In the microsecond it took for Sherlock’s brain to get up to speed he relived the moment as he pushed a bald mailman out of the way in his haste to find John.

He took another sip of his drink as he affixed a bland look on his face, suitable for someone seeing the man for the first time. He threw the picture down with a dismissive flick of his wrist and turned to Sara.

“You are the ones who kidnapped John, why would I trust you?” Sherlock let some of the anger from earlier be heard in his voice, making it sharp as steel. He was deadly serious and he wanted her to know it. It was also precisely what she would expect from him. She had expected him here tonight and so she knew he would figure out they had been responsible behind John’s disappearance, had most likely planed it. If he was lucky enough she didn’t realise that he had figured out why.

“We had no intention of hurting him; if he had just listened and kept calm we wouldn’t have had to,” She had the gall to sound irritated at that.

“What do you think, kidnapping an army man. That he would play nice and come with you?” Sherlock pushed, seeing where it would take them.

“Ex army man with post traumatic stress disorder,” She replied. Sherlock in general didn’t believe in taking the law in your own hands, he brought them to justice and justice did what it did best, but in that moment he would gladly have strangled her himself.

“Enough of this,” Sara said and made a move as if swatting a fly, “His name is Peter Middleton and he is the one you are looking for.”

So this was their mysterious killer Sherlock thought and turned his attention back to the here and now, venting his anger would only hurt John’s case.

“And what do you want for this information?” This was not a woman to give things away for free, they wanted something and Sherlock had a feeling he wouldn’t like it at all. He would have to play this with a delicate touch, this woman and the organization was not to be trifled with.

“We want you to track him down. That information was just a teaser if you will. If you agree we will give you the rest,” Sara opened her briefcase again and brought out the paper clad package that Sherlock had seen the same woman give the man in Hyde Park some days past.

“What will happen after I track him down for you?”

“You will phone this number and then you will leave the rest to us,” She slid an anonymous piece of paper over the desk containing a single mobile phone number.

“I have his name, and have seen his picture, what makes you think that I need anything else from you?”

“Because you are here, even though your brother clearly told you to stay away from us. Or I believe ordered you for the sake of national security to do so,”

So, they had at least access to some rudimentary form of intelligence otherwise they would not have known Mycroft had used those precise words. Sherlock was of course very aware that she only told him so that he would know she knew, it was a display or power, nothing more, nothing less. This was a woman used to getting what she wanted just with sheer force of will or hired muscle if will failed. He would have to be very careful he thought. However, she did not know that Mycroft saying that was practically him begging on his bare knees for Sherlock to pursuit this case.

“Fine,” He got up and stretched out his hand towards the woman on the other side of the desk. She rose from her seat and shook it.

“A deal then Mr Holmes,” She handed him the package and the phone number which he pocketed.

As he turned to go she called after him, “Be sure to phone us Sherlock, for both your sake and that doctor friend of yours.” The threat in her voice was clear as spring water.

Sherlock did not answer but walked out the room not looking back. He took the main door out of the building, no use hiding now. Outside dawn was on its way and inside the Star Bucks opposite the street sleepy teenagers was pulling muffins out of the oven in expectance of the morning rush.


End file.
